Homecoming
by Elinde
Summary: The War of the Ring is long since over, and two fathers are finally reunited with their children. *Kind of annoyed that Glóin isn't in the character list for LotR so I'll name-drop here instead seeing as he is joint-main. eheheh*


**Disclaimer: all canon characters belong to JRR Tolkien, not to me.**

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"I shall be sedate," Glóin said, sternly, "and respectable."

The Dwarves stood around him nodded and puffed out their chests. The Elves paid little attention; they were too busy making final preparations. Glóin watched their bustle with carefully cool eyes. He pulled his cuffs back down to where they were supposed to sit just over the backs of his hands. Made a mental note not to fold his arms so they didn't rise up his wrists again. He knew his beard was perfect the fork in the exact middle, plaits even, held in place with silver bands of metal at intervals. And now he would stand where he was; he hadn't the energy to rush around. He'd hardly had the energy to make the journey from Erebor to the Elvenking's halls, but he was glad he came. Not least because this time the king had had to treat him as an equal. He'd tried not to get him back for before with mixed success. The Dwarf had been surprised by the invitation but had accepted without a second thought. Why would he turn down the chance to be reunited with his son many weeks earlier than he'd previously thought?

Thranduil stood behind the Dwarves at the top of the steps leading to his gate. His hair remained dishevelled no matter how many times Galion brushed it, and he'd forgotten his crown. His hands were clasped as though holding onto each other for dear life. One of the muscles in his cheek was twitching. He looked how Glóin felt, which was why the Dwarf wasn't turning round. He at least was determined to treat this occasion with the formality it deserved. He considered himself the calm eye of the storm.

Two lined were forming now on either side of the path running up to the halls. Shouting was replaced by excited conversation which in turn died down when the herald appeared. Lianna. She was riding in front of the returning pair, giving those waiting a few minutes warning to settle and do last minute preening. Glóin resisted the temptation to run his fingers through his beard; it would make things worse rather than better. As Lianna dismounted and took her place on the near bank of the river, something told him to move away from the centre of the steps, so he shuffled to his right as inconspicuously as he could.

Not that anyone was watching him anyway. All eyes were turned to the final turn the path made before the long parade. The trees muffled the noise of horses' hooves; they would hear their footfalls just moments before the group appeared.

Stillness.

In these last moments anxiety washed across those assembled. All the 'what if's flitted across the collective mind.

Then the horses appeared.

The cheering rang in the old Dwarf's ears, but though it hurt it made him smile. But he had to hide it; he had to be at least as sedate as the Elven court assembled here.

A rustle behind him. Glóin didn't know how he heard it over the jubilated crowd but hear it he did. He had no time to turn round; by the time he made to do so Thranduil was already past him. Running as though the hounds of hell were after him. Robes falling off his shoulders. All his regal reserve gone. Not that he cared; he had eyes for just one person.

Legolas had been preparing for this homecoming for many days. As he and Gimli travelled back through the forest they had gone through every possible scenario once they'd entered the Wood-elves' halls. One thing the prince hadn't factored in, however, was his father running to him as a child to a long abscent parent, pulling his son off his horse and embracing him so tightly that Legolas wondered how he was still able to breathe. He had expected the reserved words of welcome public situations demanded, but instead his father said nothing. No words were needed. Dampness by his cheek where Thranduil held him close surprised him, until he realised he was crying too. He also gradually realised that even if his father had let him go he wouldn't have been able to move. Formality broken by the king, the onlookers had first rallied round the horses and were now encircling their royals, each trying to welcome their prince home. Patting Legolas and Thranduil on the back, embracing them and then being embraced themselves. Gimli had been helped to the ground in a more sedate fashion and now Elves were using the horses to break up the crowd so Gimli could move through the press of Elves to his father. As he passed cheers went up, along demands that he tell all that had happened.

Glóin watched Thranduil run, the Elves fold in behind him and the ensuing chaos with amusement. Outwardly, he merely shook his head, sucked on his teeth and muttered "Elves." He greeted his son with words rather than actions. Words spoken in the Dwarven tongue. Despite everything he'd seen and all he'd grown into, Gimli felt a wave of relief as he returned to his own culture.

The Elves were singing now. Started by the Elves on the edges, who decided that seeing as they were unable to physically touch the royals they would celebrate in another way, they were jumping up and down and chanting ancient songs, some of which had come with the Sindar out of the West.

As the singing and dancing travelled deeper within the mass of people, they started to disperse and move back towards the halls. Now all the Elves were dancing, apart from those closest to the king and prince. These were ushering Legolas – overwhelmed – and Thranduil – still oblivious to all save his son – along with them with hands resting on their backs and shouts of 'Cuio i Ernil annan!' The leading Elves had reached the small group of Dwarves and, when it became apparent that nothing they could do would encourage the Dwarves to dance, they lifted them up on their shoulders. Gimli and Glóin found themselves carried on a tide through the gates into the large entrance hall of the palace. After demanding to be set down, Glóin caught sight of his Elven counterpart in all of this. Thranduil was wiping his eyes with the heel of his thumb and then pressing his finger against his upper lip. Every time he had his emotions under control he'd start weeping again. Someone, most likely Galion, was at his elbow leading him through the current.

_This was why I remained stoic_ Glóin thought, but the thought wasn't malicious. He could tell that a large feast was the last thing the king wanted. All he wanted was all Glóin wanted; to spend time alone with his son. But the populous needed to welcome their too long absent heroes home. Which was why Gimli, now joined by Legolas, was being borne on shoulders to the great hall for the feast of the century and the wills of the fathers, high standing as they were, had to be for the moment forgotten.

But in a few hours' time their time would come. And there were worse ways to spend an evening than feasting.

And what a feast it was.

_I meth_

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A/N: well… that oneshot was as unexpected for me as it was for you. XD I hope you liked it. I didn't really know how to end it so sorry if the ending seems abrupt. Actually I'm not sorry; stop just before the action stops. Ftw.  
I don't know why I thought of this ficlet but it might be because an hour ago – this fic hit me at 90mph and I wrote it in 30 mins and I'm posting it right away because I haven't posted anything in ages - I printed out _All the others, gone _by Jenny Dolfen and tacked it to my pin board right above my laptop. It says much for the beauty of the artwork that it still looks amazing printed in black and white on bog-standard paper. Anyway it's of Finarfin and Galadriel embracing when Finarfin leads an army over to Beleriand only to find that out of all his children only Galadriel is still alive. (Finrod feels right in the chest.) There's so much power in the artwork that this… kind of parallel, I suppose, just popped into my head. On either side there's a picture of Fingon looking very very dead and Maglor wandering along the coast on his own singing. All in black and white. All still gorgeous. And then on my desk there's Thranduil, looking to me more like Fëanor in a wreath than Thranduil, scowling at me. Anyway enough from me. I'll go back to feeling tired and moaning about never having the right food in stock and generally not writing anything now.

Also just fyi this is as far forward as I'm going chronologically. Everything after this makes me cry.


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